When I was ten, my dad died suddenly. The last thing he gave me was a singing teddy bear — the kind that played a lullaby when you pressed its paw. I carried it everywhere, even to his funeral, clinging to that soft tune like it was his heartbeat. Over the years, the sound faded, but the bear stayed — a small, silent piece of him I couldn’t let go of.

Two decades later, when my son turned seven, I decided to pass it down — a quiet bridge between generations. But when we tried to make it sing, nothing happened. The batteries were long dead. As I unscrewed the back to replace them, I found something hidden: a tiny cassette wrapped in yellowed tape, tucked beside the battery box. My heart stopped. I hadn’t seen a cassette in years — and I had no idea how it got there.

I found an old recorder, pressed play, and froze. It was my dad’s voice. “Hey, kiddo,” he began — warm, steady, unmistakable. He told bedtime stories, shared jokes, and spoke about me like he was still watching. Near the end, his tone softened: “If you’re hearing this, you’re probably grown now. Maybe you’ve got kids of your own. I’m sorry I won’t get to meet them. But maybe this way, they’ll get to meet me.”

That night, I played it for my son. He listened wide-eyed, then whispered, “Grandpa sounds nice.” The cassette is now our most precious heirloom — a time capsule of love hidden inside a toy that waited twenty years to be found. Sometimes, the past doesn’t stay buried. It hums softly through old wires and worn-out fabric, waiting for the right hands to press play.